


Sweet, but not overly.

by velvetcat09



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffeeshop AU, Fluff, M/M, Slow Build, Spies & Secret Agents, will be adding more as it goes along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcat09/pseuds/velvetcat09
Summary: There's this obscure coffeshop and Jeremy decides to visit it out of the blue.===the coffeeshop au that nobody asked but here it is anyway





	1. Chapter 1

There is this obscure coffeeshop across the street just east of the university. It's nestled between an old comic book store and a 24-hour convenience store. Perhaps it's the saturated atmosphere of the shop with no alfresco sitting and all its dusted bricks that makes people often pass it by without as much as a glance, the dullness in comparison to the two vibrant stores right next to it. Or perhaps because just couple blocks ahead of it lies the busiest Starbucks that is constantly filled with university students every single day. Regardless, the unknown coffeeshop sits silently in the middle of suburban California with only the aroma of roasted arabica that every now and then attracts strangers in.

It certainly is not the kind of coffeeshop Jeremy would venture in at any given opportunity. For starter he's not a coffee drinker. He gets his daily caffeine dose from cans of unhealthy energy drinks. He lives off shots after shots of high amount sugar drinks, not bitter bean juices. Coffee has never been his choice of beverage, not even tea. If he were to visit such a place, he'd go to the ever-popular Starbucks. He delves into all that is mainstream because, well, they're popular for a good reason, don't they?

And so it is to the most peculiar happenstance that he pushes the door into the uncharted territory that is this seemingly out-of-place coffeeshop with perhaps one of the most unsuited name, Cozy Camper. The predictable ring of the doorbell didn't quite smack him out of stupor, instead he continues walking until he stands right in front of the counter, head mechanically tilted up to read the menu board.

"What would you like?" says the barista without missing a beat at Jeremy’s unannounced intrusion.

Perhaps it’s fatigue from entering the new semester, perhaps it’s homesickness eating him from the inside—longing to return to Boston. But most certainly it’s the quietness of the coffeeshop that entices his hazy mind to only manage on producing unrecognized noises rather than words.

“Uh..”

“Do you like mango juice?”

“Wha—I’ve never had mango..”

“You can take a seat wherever you like.” And with that the barista left him standing stupid in front of the counter, barely able to digest what just happened. Jeremy takes the seat at the left corner of the shop near the front window. Only after his ass touches the old oak he’s able to slowly put together what’s going on.

That was the weirdest conversation exchange he’s ever had. He walked into an empty coffeeshop, had not ordered anything before the barista just asked him whether he likes mango or not, then told him to sit down and now might or might not be making him a glass of mango juice. He feels incredibly dumb sitting on this chair in this coffeeshop, listening to the noise of a juicer that echoes the empty shop, vaguely knows what a mango even looks like. It’s _very_ empty, he’s the only customer and it’s two in the afternoon; Starbucks would be absolutely packed. You’d think that there’d be dust layering on every single object in this place, but in fact there is very little to be found. Observe and you’d be rewarded with what seems to be an air purifier on the corner of the wall shelf near the counter. The interior of the coffeeshop clashes between woody and monochromatic. Even if interior is not his strong suit, he knows a handful about interior design and Jeremy can say that whoever did this coffeeshop’s is not really that good. Not following any of the common trends around modern coffeeshops that always aim for that minimalistic vibe. But if there’s one thing that this place nails to the coffin right, it’s the scent of brewing coffee coming from behind the counter. Not too strong and artificial like Starbucks, nothing sweet and pretentious. The right dark blend with a hint of chocolate-y flavor. The right amount of bitterness that mixes well with wood. It surprises him how well he can understand that kind of smell, given that he’s not even a fan of coffee. It smells _elegant_ , shame that this place is constantly empty.

Something orange-y in front of him takes his entire attention in just a blink. The glass with its fill incredibly contrast against the saturated shop. It wasn’t the sound of glass hitting wood that catches him quick, but rather the color and strong scent of something very tropical, one that is very foreign to him.

“Enjoy.”

Again, the man left him to his own device, only now with the company of a glass of mango juice. The barista returns to his place behind the counter and resumes reading the newspaper. It only clicks him that the man was reading newspaper when Jeremy came in. And it really just now clicks that the barista is wearing sunglasses, indoor. Jeremy blinks. Peculiar man in a peculiar place, fits. He absentmindedly takes a sip from the straw and Hawaiian summer just hits him straight in the face. He’s never tasted anything like that before. Sure, he’s had artificial tropical concoction from a juice box, but never something as real and natural as this. Now he can ticks tasting real tropical fruit off his list. It’s sweet with just a hint of sour aftertaste, it’s cool and filling with each sip. How come he never had this before? Mango juice just rocketed into his top five favorite drinks of all time.

Perhaps his sucking noise was audible enough for the barista to take notice of him. Suddenly he has another man from across the room, glancing up from newspaper and behind yellow-tinted glasses, looking straight at him. There’s a subtle knowing tug from the man’s lips that makes Jeremy feels suddenly embarrassed, much aware of his noisy presence in this coffeeshop. He stops his drink and clears his throat.

“It’s very nice.” Echoes in the quiet shop. His only reply is the widening of that corner-smile before the man returns to his newspaper.

Awkward.

Awkward but charming.

What.

Jeremy takes his mango juice and stands from his seat. Walks across the room to sit at the bar stool close to the barista. Why a coffeeshop has a bar-esque sitting place confuses him to the point of him not caring.

“Owner or just barista?” The man glances from his paper.

“Owner _and_ barista.” Jeremy takes another sip. One question off the list.

“I’ve never had anything like this before and _holy shit_ , this is the best? How did you make it taste so good?”

“I didn’t. It’s all from the fruit, mate.” Jeremy raises his eyebrows, partly from the new info, another part from realizing that the man has a foreign drawl to his voice. An accent not from this country and he likes it.

“Well, this is a really damn good mango.” His cheekiness finally melts into his composure. The drink certainly is a good pick-me-up kind of drink. Refreshing.

“I have my source.” There it is again, _the smile_. Moments pass with the younger seemingly transfixed by the other man.

“I’m Jeremy.”

Another moment passes.

“Michael.”

Mike, huh.

He guesses, it’s time to nip it in the bud, ask the million dollars question, take the bandage off in one swift peel.

“Is it always this empty?” He had expected for the man to be resigned about the question. But not for the man to sound bored with a subtle hint of amusement.

“It’s lively when it’s the right time.”

“When is that?”

“You’ll have to come to find out.”

Michael ends his sentence perfectly with sliding the receipt for the mango juice. He who’s drinking the very thing himself doesn’t even notice that his glass is already empty. Alright, fair enough, smooth bastard. Man has won his attention and looking at the bill, _yikes_ , his wallet as well. Again, fair enough, pricey tropical fruit. Next time he won’t be ordering the same drink, Jeremy’s decided, mango juice will be a celebratory kind of drink, only once ever other time. He can’t answer his Ma when asked why is he asking for more money after just a short while with ‘It’s for this pricey-ass juice, but it’s really good and I can’t stop drinking it.’ Because he certainly will be frequenting this unknown coffeeshop. For the surprising good drinks. Not the charming barista/owner with that _smile_.

A polite exchange of thank you borderline see you and then he leaves the shop. He’s not telling his friends about this place. No, he decides, this is his private sanctuary.

* * *

 

“Are those new drinks I see on the menu?”

Michael huffs a laugh. “I guess it’s time to include the secret menu on the board.”

“It ain’t gonna be secret again if you reveal it, yeah?” Dell gives one knowing look and that’s it, Michael can only laugh in defeat.

“Time to start catering to the non-caffeine fans.”

“Oh, sounds _scandalous_.” Michael dismisses his patron with an eyeroll.

* * *

 

The kid didn’t come the next day or the day after that and suddenly a week has passed. At one point Michael was going to remove the new drinks from the menu, reverting back to the old one. If anyone ask, he’d just said that they were _too adventurous_. Omitting any details and half-disappointment. He admits to his own self, while brewing his own cup of coffee for the morning, that it might have been from acute loneliness. He hasn’t met anyone new in over six months. There were new customers that accidentally stumbled into his shop, but they were always a one-timer, those who couldn’t be bothered with the long line of Starbucks and need a quick shot of caffeine before work. Those that commented on how surprisingly good the coffee was, but never returned because it’s much more convenient to get something instant than something artisan. He’s fine with that, never bothered him. People come and go, they always do. But when that boy, Jeremy, walked in at peculiar hour, stood in front of the counter and somehow had his brain short-circuited, it became the highlight of his week. He’s not _those_ customers. Michael gambled and offered him a mango juice.

But the kid comes back on a rainy Thursday. Drenched from head to toe like a soggy puppy on his doorstep. And again, silence greets Jeremy. In just a tick Michael already knows what he’d offer.

“Take a seat.”

The kid obliges silently, taking the same spot in that corner of the room. Shivering, the barista could notice that from afar. The boy raises his hands and clamp them around his own neck, eyes fixed on the table. Despite the hollow look, Jeremy is very much aware of the puddles forming underneath him. He decides to stay in this corner, near the front door, that way he won’t be making more puddles for Michael to clean up. He waits in his seat, guessing at what the barista will give him—surprise him. Something hot, it’s rainy and he’s wet, the other will _definitely_ give him something hot. Probably coffee or tea, or hot chocolate. Maybe hot juice. Is that even a drink? Sounds disgusting.

It’s hot chocolate.

Jeremy mumbled a thanks with a hoarse throat. He forgot to clear it first. It’s such a predictable mood, isn’t it? Cloudy and gray, cold and distant; it is such a predictable thing and if it wasn’t for his own somber mood, he’d laugh at the cliché.

But _fuck_ , if he doesn’t want to just smash his head into the nearest wall right now.

It’s warm and the chocolate smells amazing. He removes his hands from his neck and clamps them around the mug. It is as amazing as you’d imagine, and he hasn’t even taken a sip yet. Just from the aroma he can tell, this will be different from those instant hot chocolate he’s so accustomed to. He finally takes a sip and right as he bet his whole ass. Rich but not overly that it leaves a bitter aftertaste like the other place. Right amount of milk and sugar, sweet but not tooth-rotting. Doesn’t scrape in the back of your throat like gargling straight condensed milk. Light but you can tell this isn’t from those instant one in a sachet. If you can put comfort in a single mug, this would be it.

Lost in his heaven, Jeremy only realizes that the barista is still standing in front of him after looking up. Was going to tell the man in his counter that this chocolate is amazing, turns out said man stays where he is. Jeremy wasn’t expecting that at all, if he stutters before he starts his sentence, Michael didn’t comment on it.

“This is _really good_.”

That knowing smile is just as warm as the mug.

The man leaves for his counter and Jeremy doesn’t quite understand this thin layer that seems to be hovering over both of them. He takes another blissful sip, realization doesn’t hit hard when he looks down at his mug, it is in fact a mug and not a cup. Not those typical café cups that makes you feel robbed for wanting hot beverage. It’s homestyle mug. No wonder it fits just right in his hands. What size is this? Large? Must be pricey, again. Probably less than the mango juice, but still eats his pocket money. Small things like these that makes him wish he doesn’t have to worry about money.

Silence takes hold of the entire place yet again and it is by far, the most comforting thing he’s ever experienced in his entire time studying in California, even with wet socks. Back home everyone always says that he’s hyperactive. That young kid who always have something to say, everything from head to toe runs too fast with him. His train of thoughts too fast, he eats fast, drinks fast, moves fast, runs fast, talks fast. Overwhelming. They were probably celebrating when he got the scholarship to this fancy ass art school across the country. It hit him hard when he first arrived here. It started with good Cali vibe that makes you go _yeah, I’m in Cali, hell yeah_. That same evening, he couldn’t sleep at the thought of not knowing anyone in here. He thought he could just swing it like he always does. But instead it was the place that overwhelmed him, not the other way around. It’s been a year and he’s progressing through his course just fine. He works hard for his place in this school, he will not disappoint anyone, especially not his Ma. But of course, nobody can deny the stress that comes, especially studying far away from home. Over the year it becomes more bearable, but at every start of a new semester it hits hard. This is one of those times. Normally he’d sulk in his own dorm until the cloud passes away. But this time he knows of a nice and quiet place to shut off his brain for a couple of hours. His decision to run without umbrella is worth it with this lovely hot chocolate.

Jeremy waits until he is dry enough to walk towards the counter. The mug already drained from its content. He places it on the counter and reaches for his wallet. Only halting when he hears the other speaks.

“It’s on the house.”

What, seriously?

“I gotta pay for that.”

“You don’t.”

Jeremy only furrows his brows.

“But I gotta. That was a lot of it and it was really freaking good, I _can’t_ not pay that.”

“I got spares. It’s fine.”

“Alright, I pay half of it.”

“Answer my question and consider it a full payment.”

Okay that sounds ridiculously too advantageous for him. He only has to answer a question and he can stop feeling like he owes the man his entire life-savings. Good enough.

“Deal.”

“You feelin’ better now?”

What.

“Yes.”

“Cheers.” Michael _smiles_ , takes the mug and leaves him. He turns his back and it feels like it’s cue for Jeremy to leave the premise. The noise of water running over the sink accompanies his steps towards the door.

He leaves the coffeeshop. From the window, Michael can see the boy turning left and disappears. But he doesn’t know that Jeremy stops after that, face flushed.

Absolutely charmed.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy frequents the coffeeshop. From weeks to days to nearly every two days in a row. He hangs around the place, slowly getting more comfortable with each visit. Michael notices this as he sees the boy bringing more of his school assignments into his shop. At first just papers, something he had to read maybe. Then books, laptops. And now, it’s not unusual to see the boy sitting in his spot with sketchbooks and stationaries scattered on his table. He can guess that the boy is attending the university just across the street.

“I wanna be a storyboard artist, wanna help produce awesome cartoons and maybe even movies, ya know.” The boy once answered, and you could see the very much apparent glint in his eyes. That kind of look that makes you instantly roots for the guy to achieve his dreams.

“What about you? Do you like your job?” He had asked in-between his sips of vanilla milkshake.

“You could say so.” Michael had answered and Jeremy couldn’t really see the expression behind that cup of coffee he was drinking. It wasn’t exactly a content expression, but neither was it a sad one.

Each visit he was served drinks that he didn’t order. He paid for each one of them, of course, in fact he was surprised to know that they were all the standard price, if not, lower than what Starbucks would charge. And in a much better taste and quality, not everyday you can find a damn good place like this. It’s easy for Jeremy to be a new patron to the coffeeshop and he finally sees the place when it’s not just him inside. He’s seen it when there are other people ordering stuff as well, on those days he sits quietly in his spot. Watches as people come and go, not one of them the same person coming back for another cup of coffee. It’s always somebody new, in a rush, same raise of eyebrows in surprise. He can sort of understand that mixed emotion Michael probably has regarding his job.

On the quiet days that he’s very familiar with, he’d sit in his corner the first half of his visit, then the second half he sits on the bar stool. They chat and now Michael knows more about him; what with him being the ankle-biter who won’t stop running his mouth. Michael said that once and only answered with his trademark laugh when asked what ankle-biter is. Jeremy knows more about him, but it feels like there’s more to it. The barista most of the time ends his sentence with this smooth ass line that leaves you both frustrated and, well, _charmed_. He has used the word charm to describe that man more than he has ever used in his entire life, probably, if you exclude all those times of him getting excited over Lucky Charms. He feels like some posh English guy with tailored suit and glasses, too much watching those British action films. _Movies_.

“So, when exactly is this place ever gonna be ‘lively’? I’ve been here for weeks and it’s still quiet.”

“ _At the right time_.”

“What, like, once every other full moon or something? When the stars and planets are aligned?” Jeremy snickers while Michael hums lowly.

“Come by tonight, you’ll see.”

“Ha! So, it _is_ full moon!” Behind both of their laughter, Jeremy actually perks at the idea of being invited to see the place at night. It’s intriguing and he doesn’t know why it makes him so excited. He guesses it has the same excitement as finding a secret place or club or something, finding anything hidden is always fun.

* * *

 

His stomach churns in an unexpected anxiety at the sight of the coffeeshop. Can he even call it a coffeeshop if it looks like _this_ , really? Suddenly the place is lit with neon lights that he doesn’t even notice during the day. It has a jazzy kind of vibe that really destroys his initial image of the quiet coffeeshop. It looks like a proper bar and Jeremy realizes, he’s passed this place a lot of times. Each time thinking, no, he doesn’t belong in that kind of place, he’s too _immature_ for that kind of place. He never really gave the place a good look during the night, just passing through, all the time. It really never occurred to him that, hey, this bar is in the same spot as the coffeeshop. No wonder he doesn’t recognize the place during daylight.

Michael wasn’t lying when he said the place is lively.

There are actually people inside. Lots of them. Sitting everywhere, chatting—where did that dart machine come from? Someone is sitting on his seat. Wait, no, that’s not his seat, he can’t just claim a seat like that in a public place. It belongs to nobody, if anything that seat belongs to Michael, he owns the bar, right? Suddenly he’s floored with all these ridiculous questions, suddenly he’s stuck standing at the entrance of the bar—coffeeshop, oh whatever the hell it is. And suddenly, he feels inadequate entering the place. It’s as if he’s thrown into another part of the town, of another point in time and history. It’s just— _so different_ , and that makes him uneasy. Jeremy loses any confidence he has in entering the place, he stands stupid near the front door, really don’t want to ring the bell and announce to the entire bar, hey, there’s a uni student here, _hello_.

He’d have to apologize to Mike. Lied to him, maybe. Tell him he has tons of assignments to do, not entire a lie but not exactly a reason since he can manage them just fine. Awh, fuck.

A tall, oh wow, _really tall_ , man bumps him. The man stops to look down at him and Jeremy nearly pees his pants. In an instant his fear is washed away when the man addresses him.

“I am very sorry, are you going to come inside?” The accent is foreign, but not foreign like Michael’s, like foreign _foreign_. Big hand opening the door just a slight that makes the noise from the inside much clearer. Oh, that just makes him want to return to his room even more, call it a day. The man is so polite, a lot polite than he had expected and it makes him feel guilty.

“N-no— _nah_ , I-I’m good, I’m fine, nah, thanks!” Jeremy waves a hand at the man before chickening to return to his dorm. The big man watches, shrugs then walk inside, welcomed warmly with cheers. Though someone from behind the counter didn’t cheer.

* * *

 

Jeremy didn’t return for about a week before he pops in again in a middle of a quiet afternoon, unannounced like the first time he came around. Michael folds his newspaper when he hears the bell.

“Mango juice?”

Jeremy cringes just a bit and hopes Michael doesn’t notice that. But of course, the man did anyway. He also notices the single tap Jeremy did to his pocket with a bulge, presumably where his wallet at.

“Uh, just choc—”

“I’ll give you a discount.” And now he notices the boy chews on the corner of his lower lip.

“How much?” His voice is meek when it comes out.

“Fifty.” It’s like coaxing a baby koala, if Michael smiles more than he should while prepping the juice, Jeremy wouldn’t know, he has his back turned at the boy, he wouldn’t notice.

It’s like trying to ice-skate for the first time, everything is so careful; even more awkward than their first encounter and Jeremy is convinced it’s only on his side, Michael looks just fine. He’s always been the baby boy, youngest out of seven, has everything sorted out for him either by his Ma or brothers. He’s only good when there’s a clear direction ahead, not _this_. He’s blunt, not careful.

He decides to sit on the stool and face his fear. He takes his chance when he sees it.

A glass of mango juice in front of him and he gets to drink it right away. That’s the stuff, tropical heaven, hell yeah. His joy might be audible, but he pretends like Michael hears nothing. The inside of his mouth is a bit numb from the ice but he soldiers on, still not wanting to start the apology speech apparently. It’s really, _really_ childish but hey, he’s the youngest of seven, he’s _meant_ to be childish. Stubborn is his trademark, even across the country.

Jeremy’s eyes stares pass the glass, and so he wouldn’t notice that Michael has his trained on Jeremy the entire time. Both lost in their own thoughts. You could almost hear the clock ticks on the wall.

“A hundred.”

“Huh?”

“I meant a hundred. It’s free. On the house.” Hang on a sec—

“Hey—I’m not _charity_. I can _pay_ for it, you ain’t have do this free stuff like I ain’t got mo—”

“As an apology.”

That shuts him up.

Michael leans down on the counter with one hand while the other rubs the back of his neck. His eyes drifts on the floor behind where Jeremy is sitting.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know the place would scare you.” That statement makes something inside Jeremy melts away, he’s not sure what it is. Michael won’t look at his face.

“I saw you and you were like a frightened wallaby—I shouldn’t have forced you to come, lad. I know the place is a lot different during the night, it’s mostly filled with loud men who won’t stop singing Auld Lang Syne after every football match. It reeks and that’s why I have _that_ on every day, really.” He points at the air purifier. “You can enjoy your quiet time during the day, they only come at night like the weird pack of blokes they bloody are. I hope that didn’t sour your time here.”

“What the _hell_ is a wallaby,” The barista didn’t have the chance to say anything before the young man burst into laughter. It dies down after a bit, but the smile doesn’t really fade away. He’s gonna use it again, Michael is charming.

And a freaking goof.

“I was just gonna apologize for not turning up, but you cut me right away. If there’s anyone here that should apologize it’s freaking _me_ who chickened on the last second. I was literally there, and I didn’t pass the door, couldn’t take another step. I mean the place looked _amazing_. Honestly.” He gives a sheepishly apologetic smile. “I didn’t even realize that I’ve been passing this place a lot? It looked completely different, like it came out of nowhere, _like in Harry Potter!_ ”

Michael’s own bewilderment softens. A misunderstanding; the lads wouldn’t let it die if they know, would they.

“You don’t have to come if it makes you uncomfortable.” Comes out gentler than Michael expected, but he doesn’t mind. He means well.

“I’mma be honest with you, I’ve never been to a bar—wait, how come this place a Starbucks and like a freaking bar at night? How the hell is that?”

“It’s relaxing.” Jeremy makes a face at Michael’s shrug.

“Doesn’t that mean you work all the time?”

“This is just a hobby.”

“Wh—owning _and_ working at a café _and_ bar!?” The kid has a point. One that Michael never bothered to see. Still not bothered.

“It’s alright.”

“You sound very enthusiastic.”

Michael does a mock bow and Jeremy smiles behind his sip of the juice. It’s a relief to know there’s no hard feelings between them. He genuinely felt shitty for not coming by. He knew that Michael knew that Jeremy was excited at the prospect of seeing this muted coffeeshop under a different light. Damn right curious about it. Turns out what he needs isn’t excitement but rather a good warm up to step inside that _lively_ bar. It’s very different than his own vibe, at one point a ridiculous thought of _‘Hell, I’m not manly enough for that, am I?’_ came across, but that was ridiculous, and he did the right thing on dismissing it.

But is he?

He needs a really good warm up.

“Still, I wanna see this place like that again— _properly_. One day.” He chews on his lip again.

And it is Michael’s turn to have something inside him that eases. He smiles.

“One day.”

“But seriously, though, what’s a wallaby?”

The barista huffs a laughter and there goes their afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

“Does this place allow food and drinks from outside?”

“Wha—I’m not really that bothe—”

“Great, thanks!”

And the door closes with another ring. It leaves Michael dumbstruck in his seat with his phone in hand. He barely registers that it was Jeremy that came dashing, popped his head in then out again like a bloody whack-a-mole. He sees the kid running to the left and now he’s back with a full plastic bag. _What the bloody h—_

“Je—”

_Kchss_

Oh.

“Is it final already?”

“Assignments deadline.” He sees the boy scattering his things on the table and then diving straight back into his works after downing one can of energy drink. At one point in history, he’s seen such display of rigorous working, everyone’s experienced final cramps. We’re all been there. Decades and even across continent, the education systems are bloody the same.

He stays there, buried deep in his drawing files with eyes barely leaving the laptop screen. The day goes by quiet just like any other day, with both of them on the opposite end of the room, doing their own stuff. Michael has just finished reading a couple chapters from his phone when he hears the door opens. For probably the first time in about two hours, Jeremy peels his eyes off the screen to see who that is. A man, short-built but the whole composure makes him rather call the man _compact_ , more than anything. It’s as if he could feel himself getting sternly scolded if the word short ever leaves his mouth. The man tips his hat when their gazes meet for a split second and it is as bizarrely polite as it can get. Who wears a ten-gallon hat unironically these days—not even anywhere near the southern region? If a smile could stun you, that one certainly did.

A cowboy just passed by him.

“Mine is better.” Michael quips with a knowing smirk.

“Yours is _battered_.”

“ _She’s fine_.” The new guy laughs as he takes the seat in front of the counter. Suddenly Michael gets to work on pouring a glass of beer. Suddenly Jeremy becomes very aware of where he is.

“How’s she? You decide to keep her?” Jeremy begins to collect his stuff, putting them in his bag as fast and quietly as he could. Still not fast enough for him to not overhear the conversation.

“She comes back every night.” A huff and maybe he’s reading too much into it, maybe he’s paying more attention to the conversation that he lets on. But there’s a hint of fondness in Michael’s voice. “I can’t really keep her, can I?”

“Nah, of course you can.” The man takes a gulp of his pint.

“Yeah—but, I’m _really_ not that kind of person. I mean, _once_ , I was.”

Why won’t his laptop fit his bag, dammit. It’s the perfect size, just get in there—

“You’re _great_. But whether you kee—”

“Thanks, fam!” Jeremy dashes after he leaves the doorbell ringing, in mere seconds already out of sight from the café. Two men watching the entire thing from the other side of the room, both in a different kind of surprised from each other.

“… _Was that it?_ ” Dell gives him _that_ look again, and friendship makes him want to splash the beer all over the Texan’s face even more.

“I’m not having any more pet.” Michael turns the bar-sign lights on.

* * *

 

He only visited the coffeeshop once more before he walks by on a Friday evening, only to see the place unlit and void of any activity. There’s a closer convenience store near his dorm but he lets his own legs decide, and now he’s standing in front of the café-slash-bar. He was going to give it another try, familiarize himself by basking under the warm lights and chatter from the inside. But none are there, so he enters the convenience store next door. He cements his dislike with booze after he bought a canned beer. He’s not warming up to that promised visit, not at all.

Jeremy checks on the place on Tuesday morning, a quick detour that he takes very lazily; his first class is cancelled anyway. All the blinds are covering the windows, but he sees people standing behind the counter from the door’s glass. He spies for a while despite not being able to really see much from the distant and the smudged glass. Would it surprise you if he says he wears glasses? He who spends too much time in front of his laptop, he who reads his comic books too close out of bad habit. And now squinting stupid in front of somebody’s coffeeshop, peeping at what’s going on inside. He sees another person wrapping something around the other person and that’s the extend of what he can see before one of the men walks away from the counter carrying a bag, walking towards the door. Shit—Jeremy scrambles immediately to the comic book store as he hears the coffeeshop door opening.

He could feel a pair of eyes drilling the back of his skull. He decides to stay in the comic store for a few minutes before going to the café. When he returns to Michael’s place, the blinds are all gone and it’s as if nothing has happened. Jeremy sits on his usual place and he swears, the barista takes longer to prep the banana milkshake.

For the rest of the week, Jeremy sees the new stranger visiting every single morning. On Thursday, the boy braves himself to walk in on them. Around afternoon they have exchanged greetings and now he knows the man’s name to be Erik, and that he’s a doctor. Erik opens a small clinic down the blocks, you would’ve guessed he’s of medical background just by looking at him. The scent of antiseptic is strong with him. The man is tall, it surprises him that Michael is a bit taller than the good doctor. Erik wears glasses that looks like they’re from old movies, even the foreignness of his accent sounds like they’re from old movies. After an hour, Jeremy deduces that Erik is from Germany.

On Friday, Jeremy wasn’t even in front of the shop when Erik zeroes on him at the street, walks in long strides to stand right in front of the boy. His body grounded on the spot as Erik firmly places both of his hands over Jeremy’s shoulders.

“Jeremy, _my good boy_ , I need you to do me a favor.”

“A-alright?”

The doctor produces from his pocket a tiny plastic bag with a capsule inside it. Jeremy frowns audibly.

“I need you to dilute this in Michael’s drink when he is not looking.”

“What— _no!_ I’m not drugging him!”

“Was— _nein!_ This is just sleeping pill, he would not rest nor take this as I told him so.” The boy eases a bit but there is still a wary look in his eyes, has that flight or fight response ready. “He is overworking, and he needs to rest, otherwise his injuries will open up again. I need you to make him rest for the entire day.”

Now that’s the kind of sentence that makes you feel conflicted. He doesn’t dare to linger on the injuries part.

“I’m—can’t you just tell him to sleep or something?”

“I would not be resorting to this had it been that easy.” Erik squeezes his shoulder and it feels like he just adds something on his shoulder.

“…Can’t you just do it yourself?”

“No. I have to rush to my clinic. I will check on him later tonight. This pill should be fine.”

“You sure he won’t notice?”

“Oh, haha, _Gott_ no. He notices everything.” Thanks, Doc. “But worry not, he will take it if it is you.”

Turns out that something is the weight of responsibility and trust.

* * *

 

He ain’t James Bond, but he’s seen enough super spy movies to know the cliché tricks. Like emptying a pill into the coffee of the target when they’re not looking. Or in this case, turning his back towards him while making his apple juice. Michael does thing quickly, so Jeremy only has that much time to do the job. He thinks he did a good job pouring it into his cup of coffee without the man noticing. But when Michael turns back with his juice and raises his own cup for a sip, the man pauses. That instant, Jeremy knows he blew it.

“Care to tell what’s in here?” God, his voice is so _careful_ and like thin ice, Jeremy tries not to blink to much lest he blows it even more.

“Caffeine?”

Michael only raises his eyebrow and that’s it, Jeremy sighs in defeat. “Sleeping pill. Doc said you need to rest.” The boy groans into his hand, he can’t really lie, especially about putting weird substance in someone’s drink. That’s just wrong.

“I thought they’re odorless? Anyway, you don’t gotta—I mean, I know exactly how it feels to be _restless_. I can’t tell you not to overwork because I do that myself so that’ll make me a huge liar. But you should rest, though.” He gives a weak laugh before drinking his apple juice.

“ _They are._ ”

“Huh?”

“When they’re still in pills.” Jeremy watches as Michael empties his cup of coffee, fully aware. That sight makes his stomach churns with _something_ ; it’s not anxiety, though. It’s _something else_ and it’s connected to his chest, for whatever reason. Jeremy can only watch.

When Jeremy bids his leave an hour later, Michael follows him to the door. There’s this languid smile on the man’s face as he nods him goodbye. He sees him turning the door sign to close and the windows blind down. Jeremy’s own smile is brighter in comparison to the other man.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

 

It rains the next morning and the coffeeshop is still closed. He figures Michael actually takes his prescribed recovery time, hence the time-out. Is his injury that bad? How did he get that? What kind of injury is it; Doc said something about opening up again, _is it really that bad?_

The shop was closed until his finals were finished.

By that point, Jeremy had almost forgotten the place entirely due to the final stress. He messed up his assignment on the last couple days and had to redo the last bit. Though he managed to submit it on time, satisfied but not with the timeframe. He would’ve celebrated more had he not messed that up.

He treats himself to a convenience store ice cream before stopping in front of the coffeeshop. The sign says open and he could see Michael wiping one of the booth table. In a heartbeat Jeremy walks in. He has to stop himself from fretting over the older man—the moment he realizes he’s worried, his face feels warmer.

“H-hey..”

“Hey.” Fuck, he sounds amused.

Michael straightens himself and from here Jeremy could see something on his left arm, it’s hidden if not for his rolled sleeves. The man sees him being transfixed by the thing, Michael says nothing about it.

“I see you’re having a treat.”

“What— _crap!_ ” He returns his attention back to the ice cream that is slowly melting in his hand. Popping it right in his mouth and sods off the numbing cold it sends to his entire mouth. He flails a bit with his fingers covered in vanilla drip, wet and will probably be sticky. The gross feeling of his hands is much more concerning to him than the brain-freeze that’s slowly seeping in. He looks at Michael with plea for help kind of gaze and all he gets is the barista swiftly throwing the rag at him. Jeremy catches him without missing a beat and gives the man a thumbs up before cleaning his fingers. Something glints in Michael’s eyes and Jeremy doesn’t notice it.

“Thanks, man.” He pops the ice cream out of his mouth, following the barista to the counter and takes his usual seat there.

“So, what’s up with your arm?” He steps his foot in place he shouldn’t, it’s one of his infuriating traits; sticking his nose into people’s business. Not that he doesn’t know his place, if anything his entire upbringing has always been about knowing his place. Knowing and taking it to his advantage, he knows where he _wants_ to step. This time is no different.

And Michael knows what to reveal and what not to reveal. He finds it unnecessary to lie.

“Small cut, from a job.” He tugs his sleeve to reveal more of the bandage, it goes up until his bicep.

“You were doing acrobats with the knife at dinner? Juggling them?” Jeremy snickers but he stops himself short when he doesn’t get an amused response from the other man, but rather an exasperated sigh with an unreadable expression.

“ _It’s from a job_.” Even covered by the glasses, Jeremy could see that the barista isn’t looking at him.

Right.

Fix this, you _dumbass_.

“Are you gonna open the bar tonight? Is it.. alright if I come by?”

That returns Michael’s gaze at him.

“You sure?”

Jeremy inhales a bit before nodding firm.

“I promised you I’d come, and I think I’m braver now. I can give it a proper go.” His sheepish grin is anything _but_ brave. “Doc will be there, won’t he?” He worries his lip as he inquires meekly. The one thing that helps lessen his anxiousness is the idea of knowing at least one person in the place. He can’t handle it all alone, but just the thought of being known by just a person is enough to comfort him. Michael doesn’t count, he’s the owner, he doesn’t count at all.

“Yeah, he’ll be there.”

That confirmation really eases his tension. Not the _smile_ that he hasn’t seen in quite a while, the confirmation.


	4. Chapter 4

Yeah, right, shit, _nope_. This is still as intimidating as he remembers. He’s incredibly scrawny in comparison to all the people inside, _jeez_ , look at those guys. When Michael says the place reeks, _duh_ , it reeks of testosterones. He’s gonna get punched. He knows one (1) man from the entire bunch; granted that the person he’s acquainted with is a doctor, so in case he actually gets thrown over a table, there’ll be someone to pick up his remains. You know when you’re laden with unperishable thoughts and it becomes a million thoughts a second; for someone who spent his entire childhood running and dodging, it just makes you want to—

His toes curl inside his shoes, the itch to just run away again—not dealing with this, never dealing with this again. _Why are you such a coward now?_

The more he stalls, the worse anxiety turns his inside upside-down. He’s just about to _gingerly_ take a step back when a pair of broad hands push him forward. The force does not yield when he tries to ground himself, the unknown force is much stronger that they end up entering the bar with the announce of the doorbell. Jeremy shrinks when every single pair of eyes in the room look at him. In just a blink, they all return to their own chatter; completely ignoring the half-baked beans that is him standing at the entrance, apparently with someone standing right behind him.

He turns around and immediately sighs in relief when he sees the face of none other than Erik, The Good Doctor.

“I thought you needed a push, ja?”

Yeah. Yeah, he needed that.

Jeremy offers a shy smile, a thankful one. He sags a bit before following Erik to the counter. Michael sports the same unperturbed expression he always has. But to the knowing eyes, he’s damn well hiding a satisfied look. Jeremy only notices the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

In just a moment, there are two full glass of drinks in front of them. One of them, Jeremy can guess, is beer for Erik. And one right in front of him—eyebrows furrowed for a bit before he recognizes the sweet scent. He looks surprised at the glass, then at Michael; who has that knowing smile anyway. It’s slowly turning into a kind of comfort, safety, when he sees that smile. One that shows the reliability of the man, one that you can count on. Huh.

“Enjoy your drinks, lads.” The barista—surely bartender now (Jeremy muses), leaves his place to join at the small gathering around the dart board. He turns his stool to watch h—them. Four men, different built each one of them. Jeremy recognizes one of them, big guy with big hands—well, _biggest_.

The guy he bumped into weeks ago. That man has a hearty laughter.

“Off with your enhancements, soldier!” Michael gives an incredulous look at the guy with the cigar. Jeremy nearly chokes on his drink, _who still smokes cigar like that?_

“He’s blind as a bat without ‘em, ya’ daft.” A man chides not so subtly, with a bottle of (Jeremy squints) _something_ in his hand, threatening to spill if he does another move.

“Can still beat you lot with bloody blindfolds, I reckon.” There’s confidence in Michael’s voice that makes Jeremy absolutely believes what he just said. He’s known the man for only a month or so, and he has more confidence in him beating those guys than he has on his own brother James who once got a fight with Jeremy’s bullies.

True to the man’s words, Michael takes off his glasses and put them in his apron pocket. He takes a couple steps back, Jeremy has never really watched a dart match to know the actual distance but knows from his own knowledge in sports that _that_ is quite a distance for throwing things at target. Jeremy bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself from giggling like an idiot as he watches Michael taunting with covering his eyes. The man makes dart looks _fun_ , somehow. Or maybe there’s another element to it that Jeremy doesn’t want to think about, yet.

“ _Bullseye_.” And just like he said before completely covering his eyes and throwing the dart, Michael hits the target. A loud cheer and grumpy-cigar-man noises could be heard to where Jeremy and Erik are sitting. Jeremy can’t help but cheer as well.

“Damn!”

“If he ain’t good, we’d be in a lot of trouble.” Now Jeremy recognizes another person, that’s the cowboy dude! He gathers much that the place is mainly filled with regular patrons, what with the unusual place for a bar and all. It’s fascinating how the patrons are of different ethnicities, then again Michael himself is not American. He knows that _that_ cowboy guy and _that_ cigar dude are as Americans as they can get. The rest all sounds foreign, looks foreign. And there he is, scrawny Boston boy studying in California to get his dream job. Not much.

Recognizing more people than he thought he would slightly disorientate him, though.

“Show off.” Comes the half-hearted snide from beside him. Jeremy looks at Erik who’s raising his glass of beer at Michael sauntering back to his station. He drinks his coke to simmer down the feeling of envy that threatens to bubble up. Not directed at anyone in particular, and it’s only just now that he realizes what’s that tightening in his chest is—but sometimes, you can’t help but be envious of an open fellowship like that. All of his friends are back in Boston.

“Enjoying your time here?” It took longer for Jeremy to register that Michael was directing that question at him.

“Wh—yeah! Yeah, this is really nice. Y’all really like your games, huh.” He returns the smile Michael gave him with his own.

“You tend to be when you don’t have much to do at days.” Michael drinks something from his own glass, amber-y color.

“I must agree, _waiting_ is boring.” Erik follows with his own drink.

“What do you mean? Don’t you guys have jobs to do?” Jeremy frowns, it deepens when both men pause with unreadable looks on their faces.

“ _Yes._ They are boring.” Erik breaks their silence and Jeremy lets it slide for now.

The rest of the night happens like that bit of conversation was never exchanged at all. They chatter and chatter, getting drunker and drunker except him. Jeremy learns more about the bar and its regular patrons, it gives more glimpse to Michael’s own life; more than the man let on. Though in all honesty, much can always be said from his way of treating others.

“On the house.”

“What— _no!_ You can’t do this again, _all the time_. It’s just cola, I can pay for that, jeez.” Erik chuckles next to him.

“A welcome drink to your first visit, yeah?”

“I’m paying—”

“Mick!”

“ _On the house.”_ And with that he leaves quick to the man passing out next to the cigar dude who just called for him. Jeremy watches as Michael shakes his head before going into one of the doors, returning with a glass of water. Watches the passed-out guy gets splashed with a glass of water, disorientated and all, before being lifted up by both men.

Someone clasps his shoulders and Jeremy nearly jumps in his seat—well, he did actually, just a bit.

“As a wise guy used to tell me, enjoy your free drinks while it’s still free.” That’s cowboy guy.

“How ‘bout we walk out while our good bartender cleans the place, yeah?” Jeremy was going to object when he looks to his left and right, around the room, not noticing that Erik has long made his escape back to his place. “I’m Dell, we haven’t been properly introduced before.”

“Jeremy.” He takes the extended hand and just as his guess, firm handshake. They both say their goodbyes at Michael and cigar dude who are hauling the drunken man. Jeremy spares another look at the poor man who’s trying his best not to burp out vomit.

“Don’t worry, Tavish is always like that, he’ll be fine.”

“Drinking himself to death?”

Dell’s laughter makes him want to laugh as well. Infectious. “You sounded really scandalized, boy.”

“ _I am_.” Anything that was twisted inside him suddenly eases. Another acquaintance, then.

They end up walking home together until they both part at an intersection. He learns that Dell is a mechanic, works at a garage at his own place. People works from their own houses these days, huh. He wouldn’t be surprise if the rest of the guys at the bar told him that they too, work from their houses. Or maybe not, who knows. Jeremy only knows three guys, as far as he’s aware.

“I said that earlier, but Michael doesn’t really give free drinks.”

“Huh?”

Dell only huffs a laugh. “He certainly doesn’t to us, but we all know paying is more of a formality than a joke.” Jeremy isn’t quite following.

“What do you mean?”

“Have a nice evening, partner.”

Dell is a literal cowboy with that hat tipping.

* * *

 

Saturday noon he passes the quaint coffeeshop with his friends. David and Ryan walking a step a head of him, they keep walking when Jeremy takes a glance at the shop. Winter holiday is just around the corner, they decide to hang out one last time before they go their separate way for holiday. David returning to the UK to visit his families, Ryan also returning to his families in Florida. Jeremy himself is going to return home a week from now, can’t wait that smell of hometown. Seeing Michael in his usual place, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper; he wonders, if Michael returns home for holiday as well or not.

The three of them walk pass the coffeeshop, as they always do, as Jeremy like them to be when it’s the three of them. He doesn’t want to share his sanctuary, he’s just selfish like that. Not that his friends wouldn’t appreciate the place, _anyone_ would appreciate the place if they actually give it a chance. But Jeremy is the youngest of seven and he doesn’t like sharing. It’s a small victory for him. They walk without ever noticing the place despite the alluring aroma of comfort, Starbucks’ packed rush-hour seems to always be more enticing to millennials. People tend to flock.

If Michael was an animal, he’d be the solitary kind. Jeremy muses.

Like all boys in their free time, they go to an arcade place, downtown. Eat disgustingly like the fast-food consumer they are. Then perusing the shopping district because why not. It’s December and you can practically inhale the festivity. The three of them end up on a stationary shop like the true art-student they are. It’s always fun looking through the selections of mid-quality sketchbooks, pens, markers. They all already have the good stuff through school obligation, they’re not really going to buy anything, but it’s just nice to have a look, isn’t it? Tacky Christmas cards, cheesy Christmas tree decorations, the ever ugly Santa hat and beard.

He founds a Christmas patterned mug with the tackiest red and instantly he wants to buy that. Christmas gift. For Michael.

Jeremy stops himself. Hang on just a good second, slow down. Think this through, he’s going to buy a Christmas gift to someone who he’s just known for a month and a half. Sure, if Jeremy were to ever describe Michael, he’s like the dealer if Jeremy ever has crack addiction. Not the best analogy but it’s the sentiment. Michael gave him a lot of free drinks, it’s only sensible to return the man’s gift. One that he cannot refuse, not with all his smooth talking-outs. It’s only logical. It has nothing to do with the man’s stupid _stupid_ smile, or that one time he was worried when he came in drenched—Jeremy wrinkles his face, Michael worries all the time, he realizes. Wait, no. Return that thought, please. Come back to the paying stuff, yeah? That guy said ‘on the house’ too much, it has to stop.

Plus, it’s red and clashes with everything inside his coffeeshop. He’ll hate it. Perfect.

* * *

 

Michael sneezes at the chilly December wind. Bloody winter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw  
> been wanting to do this

His chest hurts; not just from the erratic breathing, but also from the panic that’s literally pumping too much blood through his veins. Jeremy clutches the small box of present like it’s the last sliver of life that he has, and perhaps, metaphorically, it is. At the moment, that’s pretty much all his subconscious could latch on while his consciousness hammering the inside of his skull trying to make sense of _anything_. He’s slumped on the floor behind the counter, right hand holding tight on the box while the other also holding tight on Michael’s phone.

He wants to puke from the confusion.

 _C’mon_ , deep breath. Michael needs you to do this phone call.

He fumbles—cursing his shaking hands underneath his breath, this is a very old phone, it still has buttons instead of sleek touchscreen. Nothing that he can’t operate. _Press 6 two times_ , Michael had said before disappearing through the front door. _Tell Doc we’ve got tails_. Jeremy understands fuck shit about all this.

There’s a dial tone from the other end and that two seconds feels like eternity waiting for the other person to answer the goddamn phone. Jeremy chokes in relief when he hears a voice from the other side.

“Sni—”

“D-Doc— _Doc_ , it’s me, Jeremy. Mike s-said _we’ve got tails_.” And then there’s a pause, all he could hear in that moment is rustling noise of someone rushing around the room. He understands nothing, not a single little thing that is going on right now and that thought _terrifies_ him. Another rustle before Jeremy hears Erik’s voice again.

“Where are you now, Jeremy?” There’s something heavy and indescribably dangerous in the doctor’s voice, but what scares Jeremy the most is how controlled it sounds, even through a shitty phone.

“The c-café—shop.”

“Stay right where you are, I’ll be there in a moment.”

And Jeremy sits there alone, clutching the small box.

* * *

 

Michael doesn’t have many morning routines, he has even fewer during winter. Wake up, put the alarm off, brush your teeth (if he’s feeling it, he’ll grab a shower), then coffee with some reading. Nothing fancy, nothing out of norms. In winter it becomes straight to coffee, not even bothering to turn the alarm on at night. It’s not like there’s anything he has to wake up early for, and not that his body hadn’t already been accustomed to his sleeping schedule. Growing up in the land down under, you don’t deal with coldness like they do in the upper region of the world. Even with years of living in America, he still hasn’t completely acclimatized with the weather. He’s not that good with winter, Michael sneered at his own self-deprecation while sipping on his morning cup of coffee.

He was putting down the newspaper when he noticed Jeremy walking in front of his coffeeshop. It was a split-second image in his eyes, but enough to make him grabbed The Contender hidden behind one of the cupboards and running towards the front door. Jeremy opened the door at just the right time for Michael to have his speculation be proven. He stretched his arm to yank the boy in and slammed the door shut with the other.

“ _Duck!_ ” And then the sound of a bullet ricocheting on the glass door rung through the entire place.

Michael had the younger lad covered as they both squatted just a few steps from the door. A second too late would’ve been fatal. Jeremy looked as shock as he was; _Thank fuck_ he was right about the boy’s reflex. He saw the red dot bleeping once over the window before disappearing, just when he saw Jeremy walking. In another situation, Michael would’ve mocked at the amateurism. But looking at Jeremy who was trembling from the sudden action, Jeremy who was clutching _something_ (something small and red, can’t really tell from his posture) as if a hen trying to protect her eggs—Michael blinked away his thoughts. The boy met his eyes only for a split moment; Michael couldn’t spare more time, he immediately got out his burner phone and tossed it to Jeremy.

“Press 6 two times,” He scanned the outside, checking the spot he speculated where that bullet came from. “Tell Doc we’ve got tails.” Then he ran out, fully aware that Jeremy saw him with the gun.

Someone is shaking him. And calling his name.

Jeremy didn’t even realize that he had his eyes closed until he has to shield his vision from the daylight. Didn’t even realize that he had passed out from exhaustion. Embarrassing, if his muddled brain could think through the whole debacle. When his vision blurs less, Erik’s worried face anchors him back to reality, there’s something more than just worry in the good doctor’s façade, but Jeremy couldn’t exactly pin-point what it is. Suddenly he’s too aware of what’s going on, information comes flooding in with a rush of confined adrenaline.

“ _Mike!_ ”

“Calm down, my good boy, calm down.” There are hands on his shoulders. Why is he sweating now? Why does it feel like something is skittering underneath his skin and he want to just run—What. “Eyes on me, _Schatz_.”

Jeremy complies despite his bubbling uneasiness. “Breath.” He takes an awkward gulp of air. “Now out, easy and slow.”

Erik might be a licensed doctor, but Jeremy swears, that did _not_ help.

“Where is Michael?” And _that_ really did not help at all. Jeremy takes another shaky breath; might as well choke out a couple of answers, blurt out all these confusions in hope for an actual answer. He figures they wouldn’t give him much of an answer other than a hush-hush. But what’s the damage in telling the truth and be pissed off about it?

“Out—He ran out. I don’t know where the hell he went.” That came out in a single breath and did not feel good, nope, wrong. Jeremy tries again. “I don’t know what the _fuck_ is going on. I heard gunshot— _he had a gun_. What the _hell_ is going on?!”

Erik. Erik has the audacity— _this old fucker_ —Erik _deliberately_ ignores him mid-sentence to check his phone and proceeds to make a phone call. Jeremy would very much like to scream at the entire room, though it’s pretty much pointless when there’s only two of them and it will only emphasize on his childish reputation. Somehow in all his bewildered frustration, his brain manages to consider his pride and image. As if this four-eyes in front of him, who’s absorbed in his phone conversation, would give a shit at a prepubescent adult, who’s too absorbed in his own mind to even listen at said conversation, throwing a temper tantrum mid-breakdown. Anger washes over his shock like cold water, the still-beating adrenaline rush only adds fuel to the fire. Without even realizing he’s done it again, his brain actually _runs away_ from the entire problem, straight into the brick wall that is his freaking ego.

“Emergency meeting, _schnell_.” Jeremy didn’t hear any of that.

* * *

 

“Michael, you’re a _fucking_ _moron_ for skipping leg days.”

Yes, he has bloody long legs. Yes, they are useful in covering distances. Yes, his stamina is shit when it comes to running around. Professional or not, Jane would be the one having the last laugh.

Heaving like the idiot he is, Michael chases the culprit across several blocks. The guy jumping from rooftop to rooftop while Michael covers the ground. He already has Jeremy calling Doc, he’ll know what to do. His current objective is to get that running bastard, preferably alive, interrogate them, then torture the bloody life out of them for having nearly killed J—

Michael inhales. They can’t keep on this cat-and-mouse chase any longer, they’ll soon run out of buildings to jump and Michael will lose track of him if that guy turns even one corner. There’s currently about 30 m between them, if Michael stops to take a shot, if he fires effectively enough, the guy would already be over 80 m ahead. Every second counts, changes of him missing the shot is higher when the guy is still running, he only has one chance. However, mid-air—It’s a split-second window. Right. Revoke his license if he cack this one.

4 m gap between the bakery and bookstore. He stops his track, heart still beating faster than it should. Michael takes a single deep breath, exhaling it slow and steady as he raises the pistol, taking aim. He gets the guy mid-jump, a bullet to the right thigh added enough momentum to overbalance the leap. Michael runs for the alley where the guy crashes down. Slightly hoping that nobody hears any of the noises (he has the silencer on, should be fine, the snow dampens everything, anyway).

The bullet grazes his left side. Michael dodges just in time when the guy shot him. From the look of it, broken legs and full-blown panic. The guy’s sitting on his own blood puddling underneath him, stark contrast against the snow. The guy has a gun.

Oh no, he’s not very good at this _game_.

“Move any closer and I’ll shoot!”

That is a statement Michael can tolerate and deal with, if not for the fact that the guy isn’t pointing the muzzle at him, but rather, at his one head.

Where’s that _bloody frog_ when you need him.

Michael backs away.

“Drop the gun!”

He lowers himself to place the gun down, slow, far too slow to extend the little bit of time to think. There’s only his wallet in his pocket, he’s thoroughly unprepared saved for confidence in his skill and gun. The gun. He has to throw it now while it’s still in his hand. Has to be right in the eyes, otherwise the guy would have a reaction time. One chance and he cannot ru—

“Sniper—”

The sound of a gun being fired and a corpse dropping dead.

“ _You bloody idiot!_ ”

* * *

 

The familiar sound of the doorbell ringing clears his head. As soon as it chimes, Jeremy immediately looks at the entrance in fight-or-flight response.

It’s Michael. Looking incredibly pissed off—he didn’t wear a red shirt, did he? Why is it so red on that si—is that blood, _oh my God_ , it _is_ blood.

Jeremy shrinks where he stands, trying his best to be invisible in the slowly-being-filled room. Not long after Erik came, Dell came in and immediately turned all the window blinds. Then the two went straight into one of the backdoor, leaving Jeremy to his own device, and defense.

Michael doesn’t even bat him an eye and just walk straight to that same door. As the scene pours itself more, Jeremy becomes even more horrified. There is muffled shouting from behind that door, Jeremy dreads to think of whatever is happening inside. Three guys walking in, he recognizes the two. The drunk guy and cigar dude from back then. Cigar dude is eerily quiet. Drunk guy and—gas mask? What? What the hell are they carrying—

Jeremy jumps when the backdoor opens with a loud slam. He really shouldn’t be here at all, shit, fuck. He stays at the corner, watching everything unfolds.

“Put ‘em down.” The two guys drop the huge sack on the floor and Dell pulls the zipper. There’s a feeling of something dropping in his stomach that tells Jeremy that _that_ sack has a corpse in it. He catches a glimpse of a hand being lifted up and Jeremy immediately flinches his eyes.

“We would’ve had more if it weren’t for you lot ruining it!” Michael sounds fucking terrifying when angry. “Can’t wait a bloody second, _can ya’?!_ ”

Michael unbuttons his reddened shirt and crumbles it into a ball before throwing it behind the counter. Jeremy’s breath hitched at the sight—his left side is bleeding from what seems to be a cut or something. But what really makes Jeremy’s skin colder is the sight of all the scars and inks covering his body. Some tattoos that he can’t quite see for detail, Jeremy squints—jagged scars across his chest and abdomen. He looks away, anything else other than what’s happening in the middle of the room because it’s too much. He really, really shouldn’t be here. He should walk away as soon as possible. If he stays any longer, he’ll know too much, then these terrifying men will kill him, like that thing inside the bag—

“If it weren’t for us, you wouldn’t be able to bring the body back!” Barks the cigar dude, too loud.

“We could’ve had him _alive_ , you arsehole!”

“We helped you!”

“We had tails on us, you bloody moron!”

“Shut y’all _damn_ mouth!”

Reminder to self, _never piss off Dell._

Silence eats the room as Erik tends to Michael’s wound. The man unperturbed from the wound like pain is second-language to him. Cigar dude crouches near Dell, examining the body and occasionally pulling out items from the dead guy. Drunk guy sits in one of the booths, looking at the two of them. Jeremy didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until someone makes him jump by tapping his shoulder. He chokes down a scream when he looks to his side to see mask guy standing next to him.

“H—wh—” He blinks more than he can word.

Mask guy hands him a glass of water, then motions them to sit on the booth at the far corner of the room. Jeremy has never been more grateful for a glass of water in his entire life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pieces began to fall together

There’s still an irritating itch under his skin.

Jeremy learns that the mask guy doesn’t really talk—it doesn’t feel right putting labels on the guy, they’re quite nice, but yeah, doesn’t talk (Every now and then, the boy blinks away the bubbling dissociation. It’s getting harder to word shit out). A sense of regret for not paying attention when they taught you sign language back in high school that was easily dismissed; but he seems to be able to understand the other’s gesture sufficiently; that’s enough for them, for now. They both sit in one of the booths in the corner, Jeremy tries to pry the names from the mask guy—Pyro (They end up writing it down on a piece of tissue because Jeremy can’t guess what they were gesturing; in all fairness, it’s a hard one) by playing, _basically_ , charades. He didn’t get the actual names but instead, he got _nicknames_. Cigar guy is Soldier, drunk guy is Demolition; some wack-ass nicknames if Jeremy was to be honest but it does invoke curiosity in him. What are these? Military-based nicknames? What do they do exactly? Are they civilians or militaries? Part of him wants to know more about their backgrounds, but a part of him realizes that, in fact, he’s scared of knowing their histories. He’s scared to know more about his acquaintances in context of what they’re capable of, their ties, their everything. If asked why, he’d answer dramatically ‘How can ya’ **not** _be_ _scared_ of ‘em? They _look_ and _sound_ **terrifying**.’, but of course there is always a deeper reason that we tend to bury.

Because knowing more of them means _knowing more of them_. These faces become lives, these lives have their personal stories and Jeremy is _just that emotional_. The deeper you dig, the closer the distance between you and the core of the Earth. The closer you fly to the Sun. He blinks away another wave of nausea; because live ends fast, faster like that body in that black sack. Because Jeremy doesn’t like the taste of loss. Selfishly for his own life, and something else for _someone else_.

Jeremy clutches the small box with dents all around the corners. He’s not like Jonathan who’s a neat gift-wrapper, but at least he ain’t as bad as Jeffrey. Jeremy bites his lower lip; he shouldn’t have dug up memories. _Fuck_ , he misses his brothers. That’s what that itch is, isn’t it? Melancholy. Is it? Or something else?

He almost misses the door ringing, announcing the arrival of someone, if not for the immediate change of atmosphere that instantly activates his fight or flight response. The change being the entire room turning alarmed as well as the click of weaponries that Jeremy can’t help but notice. It’s too fast. One moment the room was quite—tense, but quiet. Then suddenly every pair of eyes aimed at the door, ready to pull the triggers at any wrong twitch. It happens in a dizzyingly split second, too fast for him (and yet he can still follow it). A man in a sharply cut suit, carries the air of something dangerous and _reserved_. The man storms in without even batting an eyelash at the trained guns, doesn’t have to because everyone immediately puts down their weapons.

“They sold us.” The man announces to the room and everyone reacts differently. Three different kind of reactions as far as he could identify; angry, grim, and indescribable. That’s as much as Jeremy could categorize. Michael and Doc look rightfully pissed (even without context, Jeremy understands the sentiment). Soldier and Demolition look grim. Big guy and Dell both sporting an unreadable expression, thoughtful. Pyro is a cheater with their mask, they don’t count. But damn if Jeremy isn’t a tad bit jealous of that.

“Fortunately, it’s a third-party dealer.” The man stands next to the body bag, pulls out a cigarette case and begins to light one. “There are still trails, but nothing that we can’t cover.”

Silence falls once again, unfortunately short.

“Who is th— _What is he doing here?!_ ” Suddenly all eyes are on him, but Jeremy locks gaze (terrifyingly) with the man. And something clicks in his head that he can’t understand, something familiar that shouldn’t be. The man storms right in front of him and Jeremy instinctively rises from his seat to back away. The man looks angry as he strides towards him but is halted when Dell interjects him.

“ _Jean—_ ” Where has he heard that name before..

“You shouldn’t be here, _tu ne devrais pas être ici_ —”

Oh, God, it clicks.

The scent of tobacco and ashes is burning his lung.

“ **I know who you are** _.”_ God, _fuck_ , he wishes he didn’t.

“ _You are not supposed to be here_.” The man hisses, in all his deep sunken eyes and hard lines of age, his graying hair slicked back, and Jeremy recognizes the man. It’s natural for him to recognize the man.

“I fucking **know** who you are!” His voice cracks at the end.

“ _Pourquoi es-tu ici?!_ ”

“Why the fuck are _you_ even here?! You’re one to talk!”

“This is no place for a **child**! You are not meant to be here—” The man was just inches away from grabbing him by the wrist when Dell grabs hold of said arm.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ , calm down now.”

Jeremy takes that as his chance to flee the whole scene, running through one of the backdoor and all the commotion becomes white noises.

* * *

 

“Why is he here?” Jean is somewhat calmer (emphasis on somewhat), he crushes the unsmoked cigarette on nearby ashtray and sits himself down to compose himself. A thousand thoughts run wild in his head and he’s trying his best to not let them spill because frankly, even with his unblemished reputation, he’s _this close_ to blowing up.

Nobody answers him right away, nobody knows what to answer to be honest, they barely understood what just happened. Dell clears his throat.

“I don’t think we catch what you mean there, Je—”

“I let him in.” And just like that Jean is immediately gripping Michael’s shirt, knuckles white as he fists the collar. Michael trains his eyes on Jean behind his glasses. Jean sees nothing but red.

“I pulled him in, he would’ve been shot if I hadn’t.”

“He shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

“He was the first one to walk in here, I didn’t realize—”

“You **know** who he is, _bushman_.” Jean hisses and Michael’s jaw clenches.

Nobody dares to move. Nobody ever intervenes when it comes to them.

“I didn’t realize at that time—”

“ _You didn’t realize_ — Wh— You think you can just _gamble_ the consequences, what is this, a game to you?!”

“Do you think I bloody _wanted_ this?!” Michael snarls, his own heart hammering against his ribcage becomes an alien noise to his own ear. Jean tightens his grip and hisses closer.

“If anything _happens_ to him, so help me G—"

“Who is he?” Misha’s voice is both deafening and a clarity in the room. It cools and washes the atmosphere without dissipating the tension. No one speaks, no one creaks; yet the question hangs high and loud. If it had been Jane or Tavish that blurted the question, they would’ve ignored it without a glance, if they were generous, they’d give a _piss off_. But it was Misha and the man just asked the million-dollar question without a waiver. It would be a lie to say that the rest of the gang weren’t expectant of the answer.

Erik has an inkling. The good doctor doubts his own judgement when it comes to the two men feuding in the center of the room. There’s always _something and a bit more_ when it comes to them, you never truly know where they rest in the trust-o-meter. Something that reeks both of reliance and contempt. But Erik has an inkling, a doctor’s instinct, one that he doesn’t really want to dwell for a reason he himself doesn’t know. Dreaded, he thinks. Just a bit.

Nobody answers, so Misha provides.

“He is your son,” the _isn’t he_ part is left unspoken, but the question hangs high in the air yet again.

And then Jean punches Michael straight in the jaw. The man nearly topples but braces himself on the bar counter just in time.

Michael inhales sharply. “I deserve that.”

“You do.”

* * *

 

Jeremy sits on the steps to the back alley of the shop. He’s sulking. There are no painting pretty words around it; it is what it is. He’s sulking he lets himself address it as such. It’s the least he can do to soothe the turmoil inside him of finding your long-lost dad—a dad who abandoned his wife and children for God knows what reason. Jeremy never got a straight answer from his mom or his brothers. The youngest of seven, he only has faint memories of a tall man in crisp shirt with the sleeves rolled up, murmuring something foreign. (Turns out that was French. Jeremy knows French, somehow his mom was adamant of him learning it. Now he knows). Jeremy could paint faces just fine, could come up with a persona on the spot, he knows what facial features to sketch, what expression they should make. Yet the tall man’s face is always a blur to him, no matter how hard he tries to remember. There are no photos of the man in his home and _he’s searched_. All the albums are filled with memories of him and his brothers, him and his mom. Happy memories, joyful. (His mom always taught her boys to dwell on the good things, never the bad. Let go of the badness. Life is too short to be sad.) But the memory of this ghost of a person remains. He knows he’s seen this person, this tall man with fog for a head. Sulking lower into his arms, Jeremy can now wipe away the fog. Now there is a face to match the voice. It fits and Jeremy absolutely hates it. He can’t help but remembers a locked box hidden in his mom’s closet. He remembers someone crying.

Jeremy sulks for however long he feels. The chilly breeze helps him recollect his thoughts. California will never be as cold as Boston, he knows, but Jeremy wants to pretend that it _does_ get as cold as back home. The youngest of seven, part of him will always be naïve no matter how much he’s outgrown his shoes. Part of him will always yearn for gaps to be filled, he longs for the grandeur picture and now he’s presented with the crucial piece of his puzzle. It fits and that’s the fucking problem.

Because truth be told, in his sickening fantasy of a painting that he keeps feeding, he longs for confrontation. However, in his imagination, the scene is different. They’re both alone, meeting by divine intervention masked in absolute coincidence. Somewhere far way, not in the US, somewhere like Europe or some shit. Tall, condescending, buildings surround them, and Jeremy feels righteous though cheated. The public is a white noise and Jeremy makes a commotion. He humiliates the tall man because the bastard deserves it for abandoning his family. In his sick fantasy, the tall man begs for his forgiveness.

Something wet nudges the side of his leg and Jeremy flinches hard. A soft whine brings him back to reality, when his eyes land on the perpetrator, it feels like his entire shitty day has melted away. Whatever it was that was clouding his brain seconds ago washes away with the sight. Without thinking a smile blooms in his face almost instantly.

“Damn, you’re cute as heck.” The cutie replies by nudging the same wet nose into Jeremy’s beckoning palm. He always has a soft spot for strays, especially dogs. Jeremy has always wanted a pet, but you could guess as much with his family circumstances and living condition. Needless to say; dreams will just be dreams.

Moments like this is when he indulges himself. Moments like this are fleeting, Jeremy knows how to count his blessing from little.

The smile broadens into a grin, he ends up ruffling the cutie’s ears with both hands. The dog pants enthusiastically before stopping and looking up behind him. Someone exits the door behind him, and he hears that too. Jeremy cranes his neck backward. Tall lanky dude.

Jeremy frowns.

“What’s up with the ice?”

Michael ignores Jeremy to sit beside him. The other hand that isn’t holding the ice reaches for the dog. Karma works in a wonderfully mysterious way, Jeremy muses behind snickers when the dog rejects Michael’s hand. Probably still cold from holding the pack of ice. Michael sighs dejectedly, comically.

“You okay?” His voice is soft with hard edges and Jeremy doesn’t know why he can describe it like that.

“Are _you_ okay?” Jeremy shoots a look at the pack of ice being pressed to Michael’s face. The man’s reply is a knowing look that says a thousand word. Exasperation is one of them. His hands are still ruffling the dog’s ears, but they’ve lost the attention from before, now more of a motion than a notion. Jeremy blinks his realization slow at the sight of Michael without his glasses. When it finally sinks in, he returns his focus on the whining dog.

It’s not like he’s never seen Michael without his shades—they’re tacky as shit, he defends.

…

Wh—

_What is he even defending for?_

“I’m going to ask again, are you okay?” The way the man enunciates his sentence so carefully like that, as if speaking to a petulant child—makes Jeremy wants to act like one. Emotion washes all over him again, too quickly for his liking, it’s nauseating. But _anyway_ , teen angst is a familiar feeling regardless.

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say then?! What do you expect me to be after all _that_?!” His hands have both stop with the dog, now just there hovering over the ears. Doesn’t want to let go because it’ll give Michael the satisfaction of an outburst the man _so much expected_ , but also too scared to hold the ears in fear he’ll end up griping them and hurting the dog. He can feel the stare burning his side, Jeremy won’t—can’t face him. It takes every ounces of energy inside him to not be upset again, he knows he’ll lose it if he looks at Michael. Jeremy can just feel the worry _oozing_ out from the other.

“You,” He lets him starts. He lets Michael starts whatever the hell it is that he’s doing because that’s the most he could do right now before bursting from his seams. Now he remembers the scent of cigarette.

“you shouldn’t be dealing with this.”

“H—”

“No, hold on, listen to me first. You shouldn’t _have to_ deal with this.” Jeremy complies with the man and just think ‘What the fuck do you mean?!’ very loudly in his mind. Michael catches this and he wants to laugh at the irony. Like father, like son.

Michael continues after he looks away from Jeremy. “It’s my fault. I knew all along and still lets it happen. I never thought you’d be caught in the crossfire—I should’ve known. I’m so sorry.”

The way Michael keeps painting himself in this picture, the way he portrays—speaks; in the way that he _has been_ since the beginning of all these, whatever it is, really _really_ pisses Jeremy off.

“You don’t owe me an apology.” Jeremy watches Michael’s frown takes a guarded change.

“You owe me an explanation.” A pause settles in between them, and Jeremy thought he’d hear another apology from Michael. He’s certain that the stutter that came firsthand was a start of an ‘I’m sorry’, good thing Michael changes his mind.

“We’re mercenaries.” There’s a start. Michael continues after a sigh. “We work on private contracts. You know Doc, he’s our medical man.” Jeremy nods, letting Michael elaborates on his own term.

“Dell is our mechanic, very smart, and very humble. You’ve met Misha, the big guy you backed into, you remember?”

“The one taller than you?” Michael notices Jeremy starts getting animated.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, nobody can forget a guy like **that**. I thought you’re _tall_ , but damn you’re like _tiny_ next to him.” Slowly, one snicker at a time, anger slips away from Jeremy. Michael always notices, he intends to.

“He’s our muscle, along with Jane.” Jeremy tilts his head inquisitively. “The cigar.”

“ _Gotcha_.”

“Tavish, the one with the eye-patch,” “Wait, he wears that?” “You didn’t notice?” Jeremy scrunches his nose in thought. “Yeah, _nah_.”

“He’s our demolition expert.”

“Oh!”

“Oh?”

“Oh, it makes sense now. Pyro was telling me nicknames but we only got to Soldier and Demolition.” It makes sense in a bizarre way, it really does.

“Then you already know what Pyro does, yeah?”

“Uh, Pyro…technics?”

Michael lets out a small laugh and that, _that is something_. “Maniac. Close.”

“They set things on fire?”

“They help with cleanups.”

“By setting it on fire?” Michael laughs, and when Michael laughs, Jeremy can’t help but laugh as well. The dog woofing cheerfully along with them, like it understands their conversation.

But comes the next on the list and Michael quiets. “Jean—Your father,”

“You know him.” Not a question, but neither it is a statement. Something is attached at the tail regardless. Jeremy surprises himself with how emotionless it came out. _You know what he is to me_ , is left unspoken.

“He’s.. the brain of the operation.” Between knowing and not knowing what to express, Jeremy’s face remains impassive. “He’s the one dealing the contracts, that’s our main job.”

Michael’s gaze doesn’t meet his anymore.

“We just finished a job last week. We take about a month of break in between contracts. When you came today,” Michael glances at him. “—I saw when you were passing the shop, there’s a dot on you for a second, that’s why I pulled you in. Y—It’s good that you didn’t stop or anything like you usually do.” _I’m glad that you’re okay. I’m glad that you’re safe._

Jeremy’s tension decreases ever so slowly. He could’ve died right then and there. Huh.

“Your father—He’s picky when it comes to the job, he knows which one to take. It makes us on top of the market. Of course, everything has a catch. You don’t excel in what you’re doing without making a few enemies. Someone sold us in the market and tried to get to us. I— didn’t realize that you’d be caught in this. You weren’t supposed to,” _I didn’t realize they could’ve used you to gain access to us. They could’ve used you against me._

The air is stiff and everything lingers.

“Did he punch you for that?”

Michael huffs out a small laughter, pressing the forgotten-now-melted ice pack to his face again.

“You’re smarter than you look.” _You’re just like your father._

“And what about you?”

_Scrutinizing._

“What are you?” Michael looks hesitant. When he begins again, his words come out softer, hushed.

“I’m a sniper.”

That makes sense. Jeremy shows the mildest surprise, then he concludes right off the bat.

“You kill people.”

Michael is looking him but he’s not _looking_ at him. His eyes are distant, they’ve taken interest in something else behind Jeremy.

“Did you kill that guy?”

“No..” Michael’s brows crease. “No, he killed himself. He was threatening to kill himself when I caught up to him, but Jane came, and he shot himself.” His frown deepens, his explanation trails and sounds distant in his own ear.

Jeremy doesn’t prod more; he knows not to bother that kind of look in someone’s face. He returns his attention to the dog who’s been nudging his thigh all this time. Its whine the only thing filling their silence. A thousand thoughts running wild in every direction across his mind, it’s not suffocating and oppressive like it usually feels, but still a weight, nonetheless. You have to admit, not everyday you get to hear someone say they kill for a living right in your face. Jeremy tries to focus on the surprise rather than the lie part. The edge tastes bitter in his tongue.

“Do you think I should keep her?”

Jeremy blinks at Michael. “What?”

Michael motions with his head at the stray nuzzling Jeremy’s hands.

“She comes everyday for a while now. Should I let her stay?” Jeremy blinks again before realizing the connection. The pronoun is the first clue, Jeremy recalls to a certain conversation he overheard some time ago. It—He doesn’t know why he even recalls that, why there’s relief in his chest now, makes no goddamn sense.

“Or you could keep her.”

Now that’s a suggestion that instantly wipes everything else in his mind. The idea really brings the excitement back in him. But disappointment comes as fast.

“I wish I can, but they don’t allow animals in campus dorm.” She whines again, looking up at Jeremy with big beady eyes.

“She can stay here.” There are things implicit that follow that sentence. _You can visit every day_ ; is amongst the clearest thing you could interpret from that sentence. Jeremy beams at the suggestion, he doesn’t really read into Michael’s expression next, but it does look like he pauses for a second before recovering from it. The only thing Jeremy notices is how the tips of Michael’s ears redden. He chalks it off quickly from the weather.

“I gotta get her a cute ass collar.” Jeremy grins at the dog. His dog. Hell yeah. Wait, technically she’s Michael’s as well, isn’t she? She’s theirs? Theirs. Wow, that has a _taste_ in his mouth.

Michael rises up to his feet and Jeremy follows (ruffling the dog one last time as he bids goodbye for now); his hand over the door before turning to face Jeremy.

“Say, weren’t you bringing something when you came here?” It’s Jeremy’s turn to redden. Just slightly, he defends.

“H—yeah! Y-yeah, I got you, uh, something.”

“You got me something,”

“For Christmas! It’s ah—a nice coffee mug, red, tacky as shit, you’d love it.” He grins wide but nervous. Like trying hard to sound, be aloof.

Michael quirks up an eyebrow and a familiar expression grazes his face. Michael is frustratingly charming.

* * *

 

Erik watches Jean fixes his suit before heading towards the door. Their eyes meet and Erik knows to follow the man outside.

“Keep an eye on the boy.”

“Michael already does.”

“I do not trust that man.” Jean spits and Erik realizes.

“You do. You just don’t trust yourself with that thought.”

Erik continues when Jean makes no sign on responding to his accusation.

“You’re letting him stay.”

Jean doesn’t look at him.

“It’s safer here.” The corner of Erik’s eyes crinkle at that, he never thought Jean to be heartless. Cruel, yes, but never heartless. Jean fishes out his case of cigarette and lights one.

“ _Je vais les trouver._ ” It’s a statement spoken more to himself than to the good doctor, Erik realizes.

“ _Natürlich._ ”


End file.
